Myra’s Table

Now that the weather has finially cooled, I’m ready to cook a big pot of chili – spicy, soothing, cold weather comfort food. This invariably means I’ll be handling a combination of fresh and dried chile peppers. Chiles add wonderful flavor to dishes; the down side is that the volatile oils cling to one’s hands and fingers. Called capsaicin, these oils are mainly concentrated in the seeds and ribs.

A universal recommendation is to avoid touching eyes or any other body parts after handling the peppers. Since I’ve had first-hand experience at how irritating even a jalapeño can be, I’ll second that advice. One common way out of the problem is to wear kitchen gloves to prevent cuts or sores on the hands from contacting the volatile oils.

If I don’t have any major abrasions to protect, I just can’t be bothered donning gloves, especially if I’m working with just a few chiles. I try instead to touch the seeds and ribs as little as possible.

Then – and THIS is the exciting tip - when I’m finished, I rub a little fat (any type of oil will do) all over my hands, then wash them with soap and water. The fat pulls the irritants right off the skin, and all of the volatile oils are removed. What a straightforward solution to a literally irritating cooking issue!

My friend Ron revels in his morning cappuccino, home brewed daily with the utmost care and attention. Since I usually visit my friends Sally and Ron as a houseguest, I’ve been privy to his morning ritual. This luscious concoction is enough to make me lament my own coffee intolerance, but I get a vicarious thrill from Ron’s evident delight.

Ron’s technique has evolved over the years. He grinds his own organic beans and mixes the grounds with cardamom, to aide digestion. Before he steams the milk, Ron stirs in just the right amount of natural sugar, to prevent the fragile bubbles from deflating. He is adept at getting the maximum amount of volume from any given amount of milk.

Over the years, the type of milk has changed. At first the drink filled a normal-sized mug. Then Sally and Ron started getting their fresh raw farm milk delivered to their door each week. Sally skims the cream off the top for other uses, and the remaining milk foams readily. Now that Ron has increased the amount of milk the foam is truly majestic, towering out of his mug like a snowcap on a mountain.

Ron still looks forward to sitting down with his brew with childlike anticipation. He spoons the first few sips, savoring them completely. He utters a sigh of contentment and shakes his head. Never has watching someone drink a cup of coffee been so relaxing.

I’ve noticed that one’s morning drinks are often quite a ritual, some of them elaborate. My particular elixir, one that I indulge in frequently, is a steaming cup of freshly brewed chai.

As soon as the air shifts from sticky summer to crisp autumn, I haul out my metal spice box, the kind with individual containers that is found in Indian grocery stores. I love removing the lid and surveying the spices - nutmeg, cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, black peppercorns, cloves, and star anise - openly displayed like so many jewels.

With the exception of the nutmeg, I toast all the spices to bring out maximum flavor on my dawah, a flat inexpensive Indian-style skillet (although any heavy bottomed skillet would do) for just about 2 minutes, until the spices are lightly browned and highly aromatic. I crush them in a mortar and pestle just enough to “bruise” or crack the spices and release their heady fragrance. I put them into a pot of water along with a handful of grated ginger. The brew simmers until noticeably reduced. Then I add the milk ( the kind I get right from the farmer), and bring the liquid to temperature before adding the honey and tea. Although I favor black or even green tea for the invigorating effect, rooibus is my favorite no-buzz tea. After straining the brew, I pour some into a fat mug, and sprinkle the top with fresh nutmeg. I take a moment to inhale the rich aroma before I take my first sip of nectar, assured my day is off to an auspicious start.

I’ve long held the belief that cooking involves a connection to the earth, especially for those of us who live in urban environments. Lately I’ve been thinking about how nourishing and therapeutic the act of cooking is for those participating. It’s not just about eating delicious food.

My recent class on 5-ingredient comfort food was the first focus of reflection. I observed that after making a host of cozy dishes like peanut butter and jelly-stuffed French toast, mac ‘n cheeses, quesadillas, and chocolate mousse, the class seemed ready to don pajamas and settle in for a nursery night. The atmosphere in the room was amazingly reassured.

The following day, a friend of mine came over to cook with me. His energy was low. The residue of a particularly bad day at work hung over him like a black cloud. We didn’t speak much; we just started peeling and chopping and sautéing. As the evening wore on, delightful scents wafted through the air; we had crisps and brown betties baking, bacalao and potato fritters frying, and ratatouille roasting. An apparent alchemy was taking place; by the end of the evening, my friend’s gloom had completely lifted.

Years ago, about a week after 9/11, a similar noticeable mood-lifting experience took place during a bread-baking class. The students filed in disheartened, all of them having had an all-consuming and depressing week. They kneaded and pummeled the dough, then shaped those loaves as if their lives depended on it. Apparently something else –hope perhaps?- was rising in the air alongside those loaves. The students all later remarked that this was the first time that they had been able to get their minds off the tragedy in an entire week.

Seamus Heany’s sonnet Clearances refers to the quiet intimacy of working side by side peeling potatoes with his mother.

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts wet between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives-
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.